The racing thoughts that just won’t stop, are fed by little scraps of bad decisions.

Self-talk: words convincing myself that what I do is my right, and that no one else matters. Or worse, that it was well received.

The aftermath lasts for days. Wishing for a time-machine, or a large eraser.  Paranoia that is filled with second guessing.

Torture that never really hurt anyone, but could cut deeply.

What a delicious distraction to the old voices. So much louder in my adult voice – my old habits that die hard – the small cries have been drowned by incoherent drunken ramblings.

Every moment of every day, second by second,   I listen and try to decipher. The more I try to make it make sense, the more lost and insecure I feel.


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